


Moonbeams

by olyphantastic



Category: Skid Row (US Band)
Genre: Bus Sex, F/M, Light Bondage, Tour Bus Sex, slight noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 00:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19841581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olyphantastic/pseuds/olyphantastic
Summary: You're on a lonesome highway outside of Bangor, Maine. You drank a little too much, the crew snorted up most of your coke and you're in the sleeping quarters of the tour bus.





	Moonbeams

**Author's Note:**

> Slight noncon as one character is asleep when sex begins, and therefore not able to consent. Mention of drug use.

The tour bus barrels down the road at 75 miles an hour, the tires whining and thumping over every crack in the derelict pavement. The vibrations and white noise put you in a trance. The real world seems distant, like you’re down the rabbit hole; in a sort of cocoon.  
  
You’re on a lonesome highway outside of Bangor, Maine en-route to Halifax. Street lights flit by the window of the bunk you’re crouching near, casting long shadows in the dust motes, ethereal light shifting the ambient hue to yellow and mercifully muting the loud, orange and blue bus upholstery.  
  
Everything looks soft and fuzzy. You almost forget that it’s cramped in here and stuffy. It smells like dirty socks and stale beer, but you're smiling. You've barely got enough room to maneuver in the tiny space, but you're hovering above- nearly nose to perfect nose with- Sebastian Bach.  
  
You snuck in here while he was asleep and cuffed one of his hands to the luggage compartment door beneath his bunk.  
  
He is resting peacefully, his chest rising and falling slowly, breath coming evenly. He’s wearing his eye mask and earplugs, blissfully unaware of your presence or intentions as you ease the cotton sheet down to reveal his tanned, lean stomach and delicious hip bones. You brazenly continue unveiling miles of sinuous flesh and follow his treasure trail until you find the treasure you're looking for.  
  
His cock is flaccid, resting against one long, sun-kissed thigh. He startles from his slumber when you wrap your lips around him, envelope him in the wet heat of your mouth. He tenses and blearily struggles against his ties, reaching for his face mask with the hand you've bound. His brow furrows and his mouth turns down in a frown when his wrist clanks the cuff.  
  
" _What the fuck_ ," he murmurs groggily. You slink up his body, nails trailing gently along his quivering thighs and stomach to press a finger to his lips.  
  
You whisper placiations to him as you remove the mask from his eyes and grab his free hand. Mere feet away, Rachel is crashed out in his bunk and just beyond him the other band members. You don't want to wake them. His hair spills across the pillow like spun gold as you slip the mask off his face. His lips quirk upward as he takes in the scene.  
  
They’d picked you up in Hartford after a gig. You’d just scored an eight ball of some very potent flake, and your tight tank showed off your bountiful bosom. The crew and security snorted up the lion’s share of your coke shortly after they invited you aboard. The band and crew celebrated on their rolling fortress and left town with a handful of Hartford locals along for the ride.  
  
You drank a little too much and woke up on the lower level of the bus with security, somewhere around Burlington. No one paid you any mind as you sidled off to the toilet to rinse out your mouth and to think about how you’d be getting home from here. It was just a few quick stairs from the toilet door to the sleeping quarters. Sebastian is surprised to find a girl naked as the day she was born straddling his body, crammed into his bunk with him, but it is a pleasant surprise judging by the hardness now pressed against your naked rear and the sparkle in his eye.  
  
You intertwine your fingers with his and press a kiss to the tattoo on his wrist. He jiggles the cuff again and, eyebrow quirked, he releases your hand to press his fingers into your pulse. He trails a calloused digit down the column of your throat and over your collarbone, making a beeline for your breast. He runs a thumb over your nipple. You arch your back and roll against the insistent, velvet heat from his crotch.  
  
He tilts his chin up like he wants to kiss you, but he can’t with you astride him and partially shackled, so you lean in, conciliatory. You press kisses to his beautiful cheekbones and forehead. He licks your throat and sucks your nipple into his mouth as he tangles his hand in your hair to hold you close. You make the most of your new position and ease him into the tight clutch of your body. The tiniest gasp escapes his mouth as his hand releases your hair to slide down your back, counter to the goosebumps racing up your spine. Your fingers twist in the dingy, moist bunk sheets.  
  
The stretch feels incredible. Every inch of your skin is electrified as he enters you slowly. Your toes curl, your thighs quake and you try to stifle a moan, mindful of the sleeping dudes just feet away. His hand restlessly kneads your hip and you set up a lazy rhythm. He quietly groans and rocks up into you, face still buried in your chest. Soon his legs are twitching, he’s slamming you down onto him, pressing up into you and meeting your thrusts. He’s glowing in the low light as sweat glistens on his throat, chest and stomach. You lean in to nibble on his ear. You wish you had room enough in his bunk to sit back, to really appreciate his miles of tanned skin, to tease him with your body and to rut harder against him.  
  
He’s tense now, and flush down to his trembling stomach, ruddy skin resplendent in the moonbeams. The hand you’ve bound is straining against the cuff, veins standing out in his forearm. His free hand releases your hip and moves between your thighs to rub at your clit. It’s too much-- it makes your legs seize up and your rhythm falter. It pulls a groan from your throat. You know you’re being too loud, but you can’t bring yourself to care.  
  
Sebastian likes the wanton noises you're making. He’s bearing his teeth and chewing his lips. His eyes are glinting wickedly and his nostrils are flared. He looks positively wild, hair all knotted up on his pillow and sticking to his throat. His trusts are getting rougher and his fingers are moving faster. You can feel it building, your muscles tightening and coiling like a spring. You’re chasing it, the pressure that’s building. He’s growling and you’re whimpering in a great crescendo as it breaks over you in spine-liquefying waves.  
  
As you come back to yourself, you feel him shuddering and emptying himself inside of you, every tendon standing out in his bow-tight frame. You fall on top of him, boneless and sweaty as he relaxes. He gives a few sloppy thrusts into the mess he’s made as you lay there, enjoying the skin-to-skin closeness while your breathing returns to normal. You run your hand along his outstretched arm which has by now taken on a purple hue. He shakes the feeling back into his fingers as you uncuff him, and drapes his arm around your shoulder. He softens and slips out of you as he brushes your hair out of his face. You roll to your right and tuck yourself into his arm pit. He stretches as much as he is able in the bunk, scratches at his stomach, and wiggles a little to get comfortable. He puts his mask and headphones back in place and is again breathing evenly in a moment’s time.  
  
You know you have to beat it before he wakes. You snuggle up next to him for a little while longer, reveling in his warmth and willing your legs to function, before you carefully maneuver over him and out of the bunk, banging your head in the process. You slink toward the steps, rubbing your head and muttering as you put your clothes back on. By the time you approach the Bangor Greyhound Station, you’re more or less redressed and got your shoes in your hand. Security practically tosses you and three other drowsy and disheveled, leather-and-denim clad chicks out as the bus rolls by, unceremoniously discarding you, but you’re still smiling all the way home to Hartford.


End file.
